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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641108">Weep</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopitGerald/pseuds/StopitGerald'>StopitGerald</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Insert memes to make this less serious, Isolation, Loneliness, Seriously just me projecting onto my inquisitor, this is how I feel irl, vent - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:35:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopitGerald/pseuds/StopitGerald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No one likes her very much.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Weep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just me whining. Thought I’d share. Sometimes it helps me when I read others vents and see im not the only useless asshole out there. Not proofread.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Just get out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We don’t want you here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “just leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s all they ever say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If not directly, upfront, like she prefers, then it’s indirectly. It’s with words that shroud the bluntness of the statements, it’s passive comments that make her feel like her stomachs dropped to her feet. She feels it in side eye glances between friends when they look at her and have a moment of shared thought, then they dissolve into tittering laughter, hiding behind their hands as they glare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s because she’s a mage. Maybe it’s because she’s ugly. Maybe it’s because she’s the inquisitor, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’s an ugly mage. Shouldn’t the herald of Andraste herself be a beautiful vision of a woman, no magic staining her blood? No horrific past smearing her reputation?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mostly, she believes, it’s because she’s herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is not proficient at being the center of attention, not at having a ‘circle’ of ‘friends’ that she’s supposed to call on and heed in times of council. She is awkward, she is rude, she tries too hard, and sometimes too little. She is nothing like what they think she will be like. She is a disappointment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way she talks leads people to share nasty comments on her lack of dialogue skills, the way she moves, the way she acts- it prompts those rounds of vicious laughter. Even amongst her ‘inner circle’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that none of them could ever consider her as more than their figure head, the one with the torn-up hand who can close the rifts and is good for little else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is with a heavy heart that she wakes every morning and tears herself out of bed to do her duty to the world. She isn’t sure what wrongdoing she committed exactly to be stuck in this facade, but she atones anyways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She cries, sometimes, alone in her vast quarters, tucked into the corner, because the bed feels too big, too unfamiliar. She buries her face in her hands and sobs, she cries, and she begs any god who will listen to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>end </span>
  </em>
  <span>this. Make the mark consume her, make a stray Templar flag her down in battle. Anything that will just end the suffering.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What life is it, to live in so much mental pain? To wake, to walk, to fight, knowing you do it only as service to others. With no personal investment, not even in one's own survival. Because she doesn’t care if she survives this. When </span>
  <em>
    <span>living </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the hardest thing to do, when it feels like every pair of eyes that lands upon her is two flaming daggers in her self worth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is a scared little mage with a shaven head and a confusing face. She is a lie and a scam.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows the others think that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stronger members of her group see her as weak, frail, whiny. Bull, Cassandra, Cullen. She is not strong or trained in the art of war, and yet she still complains as if she has endured anything close to the throes that Bull has suffered through with his chargers, that Cassandra has felt as a seeker, that Cullen has faced as a Templar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rogues, and her men, her allies- they all see her as stupid. She plans and she places markers and she calls meetings and she lays down groundwork. But it is all poorly aligned. She tends to forget things, she tends to try too much at once and spill everything everywhere, ruining any chance of a quick, deliberate plan. She is impish and silly, to them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Varric and Sera share a knowing glance when she tries to maneuver something to their favor, in conversation or battle. Cole hardly even speaks to her. And he’s a spirit, for the maker’s sake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dorian and Solas are stronger and more proficient than she could ever hope to be. Both of them specialized and perfected, she spent her younger years dawdling in all sorts of magic, and now she is a master of nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Worst of all, she is an annoyance. When she is there, in the tavern or the hall, the others taper off awkwardly until she is alone. A perfectly friendly gathering immediately turned sour just by her arrival. She wishes she could be better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They just want her to go away, and she thinks, her arms around her head, her face buried into the crooks of her arms, tears slickening her skin as she curls into the corner of her room, that she just wants to go away, too.</span>
</p><p><br/>
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